At Last, A Verdict On Argentina's 'Stolen Children'

Since 1978, Rosa Tarlovsky de Roisinblit has waged a relentless search to find her daughter, Patricia, who was kidnapped by military henchmen and never seen again. Twelve years ago, Roisinblit did find Patricia's son, who is now in his 30s.

Former Argentinean dictators Jorge Rafael Videla, center, and Reynaldo Bignone, right, were convicted for their roles in stealing babies from political prisoners during the country's military dictatorship in the 1970s and 1980s.

Elsa Sanchez de Oesterheld, 87, looks at pictures of her four daughters who were killed by the military dictatorship. Two of the daughters were pregnant when they were seized, but Oesterheld still does not know what happened to the babies.

Silvina Frydlewsky for NPR

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Originally published on July 10, 2012 2:46 pm

As a judge in Argentina read out the 50-year prison term handed down to former dictator Jorge Rafael Videla, a courtroom packed with the families of the victims celebrated, feeling that justice had at last been delivered.

And no one watching Thursday's historic sentencing in Buenos Aires had worked so hard for justice as the tenacious members of one of the world's most renowned human rights groups, the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo.

For more than three decades, they lobbied, searched for evidence and witnesses to prove that the leaders of a brutal junta that ruled Argentina from 1976 to 1983 had systematically stolen the babies of political prisoners who were then summarily executed.

"It was truly a historic day," Estela Barnes de Carlotto told Argentine radio. "It took a lot for us to make headway, but happily yesterday this came to an end with these convictions that show there had been a systematic plan."

In addition to Videla, the court sentenced Reynaldo Bignone, the last of the junta's dictators, to a 15-year term. A half-dozen other military figures received prison terms ranging from 14 to 40 years.

The president of the tribunal that oversaw the long trial against the former officers, Maria del Carmen Roqueta, called the baby thefts "crimes against humanity."

"They were carried out in a systematic practice," Roqueta said, in which babies were secretly stolen while their mothers were murdered.

Long before most of Argentina believed that the military's henchmen were kidnapping babies, a group of mothers whose children had been kidnapped had formed to find out what happened to their loved ones.

They came to the conclusion that their children had been murdered but that they had likely given birth while in secret torture centers. They then founded the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo.

Their goal over the last 35 years had been to locate their missing grandchildren, many of whom the dictatorship turned over to military officers to raise, and to bring those who oversaw the thefts and the murders to trial.

Working in a classical old building near Congress, their offices are often a beehive of activity. Secretaries answer phones, lawyers prepare legal briefs and a few of the grandmothers plan strategy.

Among the leaders is Rosa Tarlovsky de Roisinblit, 92, an active member for 34 years. Her daughter, Patricia, was one of the victims of the dictatorship, which had sought to stamp out dissent by kidnapping and torturing leftists and making them disappear.

With nowhere to turn, she did the only thing she could: protest — joining others seeking information about missing loved ones. They marched on the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Presidential Palace, where people still continue to rally.

In time, Roisinblit learned that her daughter was taken to the most notorious of all the dictatorship's secret torture centers, the Naval Mechanics School in Buenos Aires.

There, Patricia gave birth to a boy. She then disappeared, never to be found.

But Roisinblit never gave up searching for her grandson, or the grandchildren of other young women who vanished after being taken prisoner.

"It's been 34 years of work," Roisinblit said. "Not one day or two days, but 34 years."

In her case, the persistence paid off when an anonymous caller phoned the Grandmothers' offices more than 12 years ago. He identified a 21-year-old man as her grandson.

DNA testing and an official investigation proved the young man to be Roisinblit's grandson — and not the son of the Air Force official who had adopted him illegally.

"He's married now with two children," Roisinblit said, "and I'm now a great-grandmother. I consider myself privileged compared to other grandmothers who have not found their grandchildren."

'My Days Are Numbered'

Her grandson was one of 106 grandchildren the grandmothers have located. But another 400 grandchildren born to political prisoners remain unaccounted for.

Among those still looking is Elsa Sanchez de Oesterheld, who on a recent day led two visitors into a small room in her cramped Buenos Aires apartment and opens a closet.

She unfurled canvases painted by her eldest, Estela. She also talked about the poems written by another daughter, Diana. There were two other daughters, Beatriz and Marina.

All four were killed in the late 1970s by the security forces, along with their father, Hector Oesterheld, who had been a famous cartoonist.

But Oesterheld still holds out hope: Diana and Marina were both pregnant when detained. It's possible they gave birth before being executed, Oesterheld said, and perhaps their babies were adopted by military officers.

"We don't know where they are," said Oesterheld. "We haven't recovered them. We assume they're in someone's care, because in general they didn't kill the babies."

Still, Oesterheld is now 87. And she said she doesn't really expect to ever be united with them.

"My days are numbered," she said. "I won't live to be 100. I could die at any moment."

Indeed, the leaders of the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo say they are well aware of what the passage of time means for the aging women.

The group is preparing for the future. It has lawyers, psychologists and clerks who are young; some are recovered grandchildren themselves.

"I'd say that young people are the majority of those who work in the Grandmothers group," said Alan Iud, 31, who oversees a team of lawyers at the organization. "I think this is a characteristic of human rights organizations and I think that's good, to incorporate young people into the group."

Roisinblit said workers such as Iud will keep up the search for the missing grandchildren long after she is gone.

"Each day that passes we are older," she said. "So the group that we started, which was bigger, is now each day smaller. Lamentably, that is the way it is."

Copyright 2012 National Public Radio. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Transcript

ROBERT SIEGEL, HOST:

In Argentina, former dictator Jorge Rafael Videla has received a 50-year prison term for running a systematic program to steal the babies of political prisoners just before they were executed. Other members of the junta also received long prison terms. The convictions are a victory for a human rights group made up of grandmothers who have fought for years to be reunited with those stolen babies.

NPR's Juan Forero reports that this may be one of the last big successes for the group's members because they are now in their 80s and 90s.

JUAN FORERO, BYLINE: For more than three decades, the Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo have worked to spur trials for the dictatorship's henchmen. From their bustling offices in the heart of Buenos Aires, they've prepared legal briefs and tracked down witnesses. The most important ones are their grandchildren now men and women in their mid-30s who were born in secret detention centers and then illegally adopted, some of them by military officers.

Among the most tenacious of the group's members is Rosa Tarlovsky de Roisinblit. She's now 92. Her work began in the midst of a 1970s era dictatorship when the government sought to stamp out dissent by kidnapping, torturing and banishing leftists. Roisinblit's daughter, Patricia, was one of thousands of victims.

ROSA TARLOVSKY DE ROISINBLIT: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: On October 6, 1978, they kidnapped my daughter who was eight months pregnant. Roisinblit did the only thing she could, protest, joining others seeking information about missing loved ones. They marched on the Plaza de Mayo, in front of the Presidential Palace, where people still rally to this day. Roisinblit would learn that her daughter had been taken to a secret torture center and gave birth to a boy. She then disappeared, her body never to be found.

But Roisinblit and other grandmothers formed a group to determine what happened to their children and their grandchildren.

ROISINBLIT: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: It's been 34 years of work, Roisinblit said. Not one day or two days, but 34 years.

Her persistence paid off when an anonymous caller phoned the Grandmothers' office more than 12 years ago. He identified a 21-year-old man as her grandson. DNA testing and an official investigation proved the young man to be Roisinblit's grandson and not the son of the Air Force official who'd adopted him illegally.

ROISINBLIT: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: My grandson's married now with two children, Roisinblit said, and I'm now a great-grandmother. Hers was one of 106 grandchildren the grandmothers recovered. But another 400 born to political prisoners remain unaccounted for. Among those who are still looking is Elsa Sanchez de Oesterheld. She leads two visitors into a small room in her apartment and opens a closet.

ELSA SANCHEZ DE OESTERHELD: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: She unfurls canvases painted by her eldest, Estela. She also talks about the poems written by Diana. There were two other daughters, Beatriz and Marina. All four were killed in the late 1970s by the security services, along with their father. But Oesterheld holds out hope. Diana and Marina were both pregnant when detained, and it's possible they gave birth before being executed.

OESTERHELD: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: We don't know where they are, said Oesterheld. We assume they're in someone's care because in general they didn't kill the babies. But Oesterheld is now 87.

OESTERHELD: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: My days are numbered, she said. I won't live to be 100. I could die at any moment. The Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo are preparing for the future. The group has lawyers, psychologists and clerks who are young. Roisinblit says they will keep up the search.

ROISINBLIT: (Foreign language spoken)

FORERO: Sadly, with each day, we're older, she said. So the group we started with, which was much bigger, is now smaller. Juan Forero, NPR News. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright National Public Radio.